Smith obeyed. “You are making your dress?” “Such as it is. “Oh no, you’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?” “No Julian. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven. She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. Perhaps you'll give me in return some token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet again.
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